


I need this hole gone

by sarcasticbones



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Laura Hale, Biting, Light BDSM, Nipple Play, Oral Sex, Penis In Vagina Sex, Praise Kink, Subspace, Tell me what to do and then tell me I'm good, Top Laura Hale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 07:03:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8134699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcasticbones/pseuds/sarcasticbones
Summary: mostly porn, power dynamic undertones, fix-it sex.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aerialiste](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aerialiste/gifts).



> ok, so this belongs in the same world as "It's hard to know which one of us is caving," and could tentatively take place after Derek leaves Boston and Stiles goes into his hardcore mage training. But it can be read separately, obviously, because it's mostly porn. 
> 
> Also this is Derek/Laura porn, so please don't read it if that offends you. In my head it's not offensive because of bs magical werewolf reasons ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯.
> 
> It's for my darlin @aerialiste, because.
> 
> The title is still from "Stay", still in a 30 Seconds to Mars cover version.

“Stop,” she says in time with the closing door - a wet click of her tongue to the metallic snick of the latch. He doesn’t turn to look at her, just keeps staring out of the window. Not that there’s much to see - an occasional bird, a patch of industrial brick, a slice of blue skies. Power lines in the distance. The light has grown odd now that the day is dragging its tail. It pushes weakly against dirty glass. When dawn cracked it was sharp and pink, then blossomed into bright orange. But now … now it’s pale and grimy; bleached of both color and warmth. Like Derek.

 

“You have to stop,” Laura says again; crosses the floor on silent feet, wolf feet, predator feet. She sits on the edge of the bed with him.

 

This is technically her bedroom. But Derek’s not leaving. They’ve done this before. Burrowed into each other to mute the rest of the world. After Paige. After the fire. In New York. Maybe its mostly Derek who burrows and Laura who lets him.

 

“Derek,” she intones; tries to lure him out of the limp lassitude: “you’re their Alpha, they can’t deal with this; as humans they understand, but as wolves they can’t.”

And she’s right, of course she is, Laura is always right. And of course she would be thinking of their Betas while he’s being selfish. He’s always selfish, isn’t he?Maybe it would be better for everyone if he found a way to transfer the power again. What would happen if Laura took it? She has her own now. Could she still carry his? But the Alpha magic feels more solid this time, more his than what he took from Peter ever did. In a way Stiles gave it to him, so he doesn’t really want to part with it. But he doesn’t want to use it either. Doesn’t want the weight of it in his bones, the strength of it in his thighs, doesn't want the extra kick of the pack bonds – the clenching of their pains, needs and wants in his gut. He just wants to sit on Laura’s bed and let the comforting bouquet of her scents curl around him.

 

Laura runs nimble, skinny fingers through his hair and he leans into it, mindless and animal. Seems his own wolf can’t deal with the self-inflicted solitary either. Derek is bad at everything.

“Oh pup,” Laura murmurs and rubs the cold tip of her nose on his cheekbone. She’s too kind to him. He shouldn’t be asking for this. He shouldn’t need this. He’s a grown man, a grown wolf, a goddamn Alpha! He fell off this realm and lived to tell the tale. He saved Stiles. He can crush a skull in one hand.

 

He leans further into Laura’s space; tilts his head to offer his neck.

Her fingers comb through his thicket of hair, snagging on knots, then close around the nape of his neck. Five perfect pressure points of connection – hooking and anchoring. A soft ‘mrrw’ escapes from somewhere in his chest, not really man, mostly wolf. A wolf aching for the known in the unknown. For order in chaos. For a place he doesn’t have to rend and tear for.

 

“You’ll sleep tonight,” Laura says still squeezing down on his neck, breath warm on his skin, voice low and steady: “lying down, under the covers.”

“And you’ll get out of the bed in the morning.”

It’s list of demands, not a discussion.

She pushes down on his sternum with the knuckles of the hand not squeezing his neck. Pushes until he lies back, legs still dangling over the edge.

“You’ll eat breakfast with your pack and get their scents on you.”

Something akin to dissent flinches in him, but Laura has a fist over his heart, and she’s pushing him into the bed.

“Derek?”

He meets her eyes, reluctant but resigned, regressing into what his wolf seems to need right now. What they both need right now. Heeding to her Alpha spark even though she hasn’t pulled out the voice or the eyes. Even though he has his own.

“Did you hear me, pup?” Laura asks. Her eyes are a grid of concerned grays, greens and blues. Thick black lashes so close Derek can count each one. And it’s the concern that makes the ‘pup’ flash hot in his spine. Makes his thighs flex and his heels dig into the side of the bed as he feels everything at once, none of it matching, none of it complimentary.

“Don’t fight,” Laura warns, mouth twisting to one side.

“I’m stronger than you,” Derek offers in a parody of all the conversations they’ve had since he turned eight.

“Yeah?” Laura asks, flings one of her legs over his hips; moves the hand she had on the back of his neck to press down on his Adam’s apple.

Derek nods, but doesn’t fight. He doesn’t want to fight. He wants to hide in Laura forever, but she’s asking for something in return this time. She never has before. The thought shudders in him, upsets his wolf. Derek lets go, snaps eye contact, shies away.

 

“Hey, hey,” Laura says, moving her hands, cupping his face. Her fingers smell faintly of apples now that they’re on his face. She leans forward, a curtain of hair brushing Derek’s forehead; rubs their noses together: “no, ok? It’s not like that. But I need you to try D. I need you to just say you will try?”

And Derek nods. The motion is dragged out of him, instinct rather than choice.

“Good pup,” Laura says, thumbs pulling at the corners of his mouth.

The wolf whines in his chest, but Derek clamps his teeth and keeps it in to retain some dignity. Although why he thinks he has to is unclear, probably also naïve. This is Laura.

Her grin stretches.

She leans down on her elbows, one on each side of his face, their bellies pressed tight and hot against each other, her breasts tumbling forward. A soft, warm weight through thin gray cotton. No bra. She rarely wears a bra. There’s probably a tank top under the t-shirt though. Or another shirt. She’s kind of like Stiles that way. Layers.

 

Hurt howls in his chest and he buries his nose in the softness of cotton and flesh.

 

“You wanna sleep?” Laura asks in a soft voice.

Derek rubs his nose across her clavicles in an empathetic ‘no.’

“You wanna talk?” Laura asks, and how she makes it sound like a real question is beyond Derek. He doesn’t answer, but shuffles; pulls his knees up, pushes his heels in the mattress, moves up the bed, and wraps his arms all the way around Laura’s slender frame. He bunches his hands into the cotton of her shirt and squeezes hard enough to punch the breath out of a human girl.

 

But Laura is no human girl.

She is fierce.

She is wolf.

She is Alpha.

She is Derek’s safe space.

He hears air choke and whistle in her lungs.

He feels Laura pause - a thought occurring, slowing her movements: “do you wanna fight?” she asks, uncertain, but willing. Unconsciously emphasizes the ‘wanna’? Her clothes smell like dry autumn leaves and crisp northeast winds. She smells of what her eyes look like. Clear and cool with an occasional flick of warm and familiar. Derek should stop squeezing her, but it’s hard. His wolf savors the grip, the fact that she lets him.

 

And no, Derek doesn’t want to fight. At all. He has no fight left, he feels. He’s a runaway plastic bag, floating down an empty street. Might seem big, but will collapse at the simplest touch; become garbage at the change in wind.

“No,” he says in a raspy voice, eases the constrictor boa hold.

Laura pets the top of his head, pushes up a bit to look him in the eye. The expression on her face is soft, so soft. A baby cub’s fluffy coat and belly rubs, bouncy moss in a play den.

“You want me to tell you what to do?” Laura asks.

“Yes,” he whispers, tries to keep looking her in the eyes, even though it’s hard. This deserves more than a shame-faced nod.

 

Laura’s body wakes back into action then, muscles moving under warm skin, flexing as she places more of her weight on her knees and forearms.

“Well, you know how I love doing that,” she says, tongue in cheek, teeth too long, grin too sharp.

She rocks back, shifts her weight once more, and sits on Derek’s lower abdomen. Makes him clench to protect the squishy insides. Makes him collect himself; mold his body to meet her actions.

 

“Put your hands up for me?” she asks; rubs her warm palms up his sides, over his armpits then over the tender skin of his complying underarms. Wraps her thinner, shorter fingers over his bigger, stronger ones and folds them so that he circles his right wrist with his left hand.

“Will you keep them there, D?” she asks, and Derek nods, eyes wide, chin catching on the flowing hem of her t-shirt.

“You’re so good,” Laura offers. Praise Derek doesn’t know what to do with, wants to reject, even as it sinks into his skin like warmth from the sun.

Her fingers climb back down his arms, stop briefly to touch his face. She rubs a line down his nose, smoothens out his eyebrows, pulls on his upper lip to look at his teeth. It makes Derek want to sneeze and snap. Laura’s rubbing the pad of her thumb on the sharp edge of his canine, a thoughtful look on her face: “You’re so pretty, you know,” she says absently: “such a pretty pup.”

Derek flushes – sudden and wide; the tips of his ears burning up along with large patches of skin on his neck and chest. He fights the urge to twist his face out of her grip, smash it in his own bicep to hide his eyes.

Laura scratches her nails through his scruff, a twist in each follicle sending a buzz down to his belly button, then further out, all the way to his toes. She sweeps her palms down over his chest, one quick motion to where his T-shirt is rucked up a bit, pushes it until it’s a fold of fabric under his chin.

She digs her thumbs into his armpits and Derek flinches like he’s been electrocuted. His body bows and contorts; tries to process the sensation.

“So good,” Laura murmurs again, half to herself, half to Derek. The more she says it, the warmer Derek’s skin feels. He still doesn’t believe her, but each new press of praise no longer feels sudden like a brand. It’s more like she’s gradually kneading it in until he’s a pile of warm compliant meat.

 

She slides a hand behind his neck, lifts his head for him, and rolls the t-shirt over and up, all the way to where he is holding on to his wrists. Leaves the fabric there in a parody of a knot that he gratefully grabs a hold of.

She leans down and sets her teeth on his jaw, drags the sharp edge of them back and forth. Clamps down until Derek feels a sharp tang of pain that slowly mixes with the thicker buzz of being rubbed the right way. Nerve endings lighting up one by one, a blazing grid that makes Derek’s toes clench. She moves her mouth to where his pulse beats against the thin skin underneath his ear, presses the flat of her tongue against it for one … two … three … four … beats, waits for his heart to speed up, bites over the wet patch, then a line of marks to the meaty slope of his shoulder.

 

His cock is fully hard, pressing against the zipper of his jeans, seemingly gone from sad and soft to desperate without any of the steps in between. She rubs against it now and then, now rhythm, no purpose, an occasional semi-circle of heat through two layers of denim.

 

“Wanna touch you,” Derek asks, but Laura’s teeth are still marking his skin, moving down over his left pec. She slides a: “not right now, baby,” over his nipple. Licks at it with a soft, wet tongue, coaxes it into a vulnerable, spit-slick peak, then blows a sadistic stream of cool air over it. Derek clenches his thighs, thumps his heels into the mattress.

Laura pats him with a patronizing: “that’s it,” does it again. Melts the agitated flesh under her warm tongue, then whips it into firmness by blowing on it. After the third time she clothes her teeth around it, bites in a moment of tearing, burning pain, then sucks hard to draw it out. Derek feels a new grid of nerve endings come online, burn paths through his body, overload his system. There are blue-orange starbursts behind his lids, when he squeezes his eyes shut.

“Please, wanna feel your skin,” Derek asks again, blood fizzing with sensation, half mad with it.

“Okay baby,” Laura agrees. Pulls all her shirts off in one go, flings them over her shoulder to a mesmerizing bounce of her breast. Derek arches up towards all of that skin.  
“Shh, I got you, don’t worry, pup,” Laura says but leans away from him, sits more firmly over his confined cock, rubs their heats together in little figure eights of her hips. Derek watches her nipples harden and point, smells her wetness leaking out of her as she rubs, chasing her own pleasure. The room fills with thick, cloying scent of arousal, painting over the last vestiges of control Derek was clinging to.

“Please,” he begs brokenly: “please.”

“Shh,” Laura soothes again: “do you need to come?”

And does he? He doesn’t know. His cock is hard, sure, but he … he.

 

“Okay, baby,” Laura says; doesn’t make him decide. Pops the button of his jeans and sticks her hand down his pants, adjusts him, so it hurts less, but leaves him trapped. She pulls her hand out and smells her fingers, and Derek almost blacks out at the new wave of hot and horrible crashing into him. He blinks like there’s a glitch in his brain; finger spasming pointlessly against the pulse in his own wrist.

 

Laura lays flat over Derek’s chest; pushes her hands between his sweaty back and the covers. Squeezes hard, and her skin is like a fire blanket - dulling the fireworks of nerves in his. She waits for his pulse to even out a bit, then scoots back to start on his other nipple. A soft wet tongue, a sharp lash of cool air, a bite and a suck, and repeat, and repeat, until Derek’s thrashing under her, shaking his head from side to side. The only thing keeping him from thrumming out of his own skin is her steady stream of little praises: “so good,” “such a good pup,” “just like that.”

Derek comes at some point, without feeling it build really, without a warning. Some come just shoots out of him, into the hollow between his hipbone and the fabric of his jeans, but his cock stays hard.

“Okay,” Laura says: “that’s good, you’re doing so good.”

And Derek smiles, sweaty and dumb, because he wasn’t doing anything, but there’s so much praise massaged into his skin that there’s nowhere for it to go.

 

“Wanna eat you,” he asks, words sticking together, brain all wonky and flooded with chemistry, wrecked and stupid, but so sure: “want you to come.”

“Okay,” Laura says, because she will always give him what he needs. The knowledge sinks into his bones, makes him heavy and real. Laura gets off him, stands next to the bed and pops the button of her jeans. The thick smell of her sex explodes in the room as she discards her pants. She’s fully naked now, strong and sharp and dark and Derek’s.

“Are your arms falling asleep?” she asks, climbing back on the bed, bony knees bumping his side. Derek shakes his head.

“Good, that’s good, cause I want you to keep them there, can you do that D?”

Here eyes are carefully scanning his face.

Derek nods.

“Use your words, baby,” she urges.

“I can do that,” Derek offers, tongue fat; high as a kite, but never more certain of anything else in his life. He can definitely keep his hands there.

“Wanna eat you,” he reminds her.

“I know pup, I know,” she says, climbs up and over him, but instead of planting her knees and grabbing the headboard she turns, wiggles her feet under his elbows and lodges her calves; the back of her knees almost touching his armpits. Derek can see the tight globes of her ass and a smear of wetness on her inner thigh, makes a reedy noise into the empty space between his face and her cunt.

“Shh, I know,” she says, plants one hand on his hip, reaches the other behind her to grab the headboard; sits on his face.

 

Derek drowns in it, the taste and smell of her; the hot, humid darkness of where his face is crammed tight against flesh, not enough space and not enough air, but an entire universe’s worth of Laura. He presses into it; licks and burrows as if there’s a hope to get to the very core. He eats at her folds, wet and soft tongued like he knows she likes; opens his mouth wide - a ring of dull, soft human teeth surrounding her pussy, tongue fluttering in between. Feels her swell and heat under his mouth, feels her clit grow on his tongue as he sucks, gentle and careful, because she’s sensitive. Feels a bright explosion of joy in his chest and five sharp gouges in his hip as she comes; blurts a broken: “no, more,” when she starts lifting away from him.

 

“Ok, but use your hands,” Laura says: “don’t want them to fall asleep.”

Derek tears the t-shirt still around his wrists, because he’d forgotten it was there. And okay, yes, his arms were definitely falling asleep; the joints ache as he rotates his shoulders. But then he has two handfuls of meat, a hard, sinewy thigh and a thick mound of ass - spreading, opening - pulling her back down to meet is mouth.

Laura groans and lets go of the headboard, shifts her weight to her hands and knees. He pulls her down, thumbs sliding on slick skin, licks a stripe over her taint, smears spit over the tight furl of muscle, fights the urge to bite as he eats her ass. He gets lost in chasing her orgasms, doesn’t surface until she’s struggling against his hold, sobbing: “stop, stop.”

Her thighs are trembling, wet, and scratched red from his beard. She’s resting her head on his hip, a hair’s breadth from where his dick is wet and still hard in his jeans. He feels shiny, and bright, and new, the insides of his skull filled with pure white.

 

He releases his hold on Laura and she crawls away. Her face is flushed and sweaty, hair sticking to her forehead and her lips, when she turns around.

“You’re so good at that,” she pants, chest heaving: “so good D, so good for me.”

Derek thinks he smiles at her, but he’s not sure. A tight, confusing feeling is wrapping itself around him like gauze.

“Hey, hey,” she says, yanking his zipper down with a shaky hand: “you still with me, baby?”

Her fingers closing around his cum covered cock are like a live wire, a switch to that last bit of his brain he hadn’t receded yet.

“Good?” Derek asks, feels his own lids drag in blinks that are far too slow.

“So good,” Laura promises, pouring bleach over those last dark crevices, washing gunk out of the fracture lines in his soul.

“Wanna come in you,” Derek slurs, not even sure if he can move his hips enough to fuck.

“Okay,” Laura agrees: “okay, pup.”

She pulls his jeans down an inch or two, gives up, when it’s too much of a struggle against sweaty skin. She cradles Derek’s cock, rubs her pussy over it to spread some of her wetness over his shaft, then sinks down in one sudden move. Struggles. Stops breathing for a beat, when it’s too much. Her eyes are squeezed shut, and she looks like a little girl for a moment, like a Laura who’s fallen off the roof trying to leap to that tree too far off the side of the house. She’s pressing a hand down on her lower belly, where Derek thinks his cock is, biting her lip.

Derek wants to ask her if she’s ok, but only manages a distressed sound, to which her eyes blink open in a blazing, flawless red. No vulnerable girl, just a majestic wolf. She lifts, cants her hips, then rolls herself down on his cock. And again. And again. Slow, but not really sweet. Deep, and endless, and dark, and forever. Rhythm of the moon, wolf pulse; vibrating through them both, until they tumble.


End file.
